


The Bastard Son Foretold

by Red_X



Category: Divinity: Dragon Commander (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Gore, Eventual Romance, F/M, High Fantasy, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 23:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_X/pseuds/Red_X
Summary: The assassination of the Emperor by his own children has flung Rivellon into a war of succession that it may not survive. In a desperate attempt to hinder the chaos, the remaining races seek out the deceased monarch's illegitimate son.Warfare, politics, prejudice, love and six murderous siblings. A Dragon Knight's destiny is anything but simple.





	1. Ashes to Ashes

He was having the dream again. 

Dazzling, brilliant white surrounded him on every side. It nearly blinded his eyes from the light reflecting off of every surface, yet there was no real discernible source he could see for the light. It was as if the walls, ceiling, and floor simply radiated light, removing any traces of shadows and giving the corridor an oddly flat look. He could see that there were some sort of patterns and decorations painting the place, but he could not make out any of the details. 

The only sound in his ears was his own breathing, harsh and fast due to his running. Not even his little feet hitting the ground made any noise, adding a further surreal note to the dream as he hurtled down the hall, straight as an arrow, with his legs and body feeling oddly detached from his mind. Despite the ache in his chest, it wasn’t enough to make him want to stop, no matter how long he ran. Getting to his destination was more important, he had to reach it in time, he had to—

Beautiful, swooping arches raced by his vision, hardly registering in his head, just like the pale swirls across the walls barely discernible from the surface they covered. It wasn’t important, nothing was more important than pushing himself forward, than whatever he was looking for in front of him. It would be in front of him, he knew that, but he had no idea how. He didn’t even know what it would be. Just that it would be in front of him; he strained his eyes, trying to see, needing to spot at least something.

Then just as suddenly as a flash of lightning, he saw it. It made his heart leap, it did not gradually enter his vision due to him getting close enough to see it, one moment the corridor was empty and the next moment the doors were there, blocking his way. But he did not care, it was what he needed.

The double doors were as white as the rest of the corridor and so tall that he couldn’t see where they ended. But in stark contrast to everything else, the handles were gold. He grabbed one and pushed as hard as he could, but the door would not move. That had nothing to do with their size, though, he knew instinctively that if he tried hard enough then they would eventually move. 

Whining with the effort, he shoved his whole body against the door and pushed with his feet. He put his shoulder against the surface and pushed. He even began pulling in desperation, but then he quickly went back to shoving, knowing that was right. Panic and anger began to well up in him and he even began yelling, banging his fists against the door and hitting it over and over, as if that might somehow loosen it. 

His efforts were pointedly ignored. The door remained unmoved. The only thing he had succeeded in doing was bruising and bloodying his knuckles.

With a scream of frustration, his eyes burning, he slammed his body against the door with all of his might, and he finally felt it give way under the force of his assault. It creaked only an inch, but that inch was the only thing he needed. He pushed again, his muscles straining under the effort, and with agonizing slowness the door began to swing open. Finally it was open enough for him to slip through into the beyond.

The room was cavernous, making him feel even smaller than he already was. Looking down, he saw that the floor was no longer featureless, but dominated by the symbol of a silver sun, polished to a shine. His face was reflected back at him: soft and gentle due to his youth, his skin the color of caramel. His hair was night-black, messy and tangled locks sticking to his face or floating about his head due to his frantic sprinting from earlier, but none of it compared to the brilliance of his eyes. The color of flames and just as bright, staring at him with an intensity that forced him to look away, to look up, even though dread filled his heart to do so.

A throne dominated the other end of the room, white as marble, somehow giving him the feeling of it looming over him even though it was not even half the size needed for it to do so. There was a figure sitting on the throne, surrounded by six other figures, and it took the boy a moment to understand what was so horribly, terribly wrong with the sight he was seeing before him.

The figure on the throne was wrapped in what appeared to be a white shroud, the features beneath completely obscured by the cloth. And yet there were six gleaming daggers impaled upon the body, each weapon held by one of the six figures. Even as he watched, the white of the shroud was gradually dyed a fresh, scarlet red as the blood flowed freely from fresh wounds. 

He tried to see who the other figures were, but they seemed to be made of light and it was impossible to tell if they were even human or not, despite their vaguely humanoid shape. They looked far too small to be human, unless they were also children like himself, but the idea was absurd. Yet even as he tried, it was as if they sensed the attention upon them, and all of their heads turned in unison to stare back at him, breaking the unnatural stillness of the scene. Their empty, dark eyes stared at him, and all at once he felt as if they would devour him if he remained here. 

Terror filled him, and—

He jolted awake with a gasp, his heart pounding in his chest so hard that he felt the rest of his body shaking from it. He was gasping, as if he really had just run for miles, and the scent of smoke filled his nostrils with each breath. Glancing down, he saw that the single sheet he slept with had been burned away, while the last scraps of fabric that he held clutched in his hands dissolved to ash right before his eyes, leaving his bare body exposed to the world. There were singe marks all over his room, some of them still glowing a dull orange like the last flickering coals of a fire.

With a sigh he slid himself out of his tiny bed and walked slowly to the center of his room. He always felt strange after his nightmares, especially that one. Everything in his dreams felt so real, and after being so small it was almost unnatural to be back in his regular body again. He arranged himself on the floor, sitting crosslegged, and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself and focus.

“I am flesh, not flame. I am flesh, not flame.” The chant was soothing, if anything for the repetition alone. He focused only on what the words were saying and nothing else, letting the words calm his mind like the endless crash of waves upon the seashore. 

Eventually he felt his heartbeat starting to slow down, returning back to its normal rate as he kept up his chant and forced his breathing to remain steady and measured. After several minutes, when his body began to ache from sitting on the hard floor and his heart beating calmly again, he stopped and opened his eyes once more. He would have to clean up the mess, but later. With another small sigh he got up and went to his dresser, thanking his lucky stars that it had not caught fire, and began to pull on his clothes. Sitting on top of the dresser was a notebook, with the edge of an obviously loose page hanging out of the depths. 

Frowning, he pulled the page out and stared at it. A beautiful woman had been sketched on the page in charcoal, but the only spot of color on the drawing were his eyes, which he had colored a dark orange. He stared at it for a few more moments, his expression unreadable, before sighing and replacing the page, handling the paper with utter tenderness before he headed off to find a broom.

Hours later the sun had fully risen over the horizon and the little town around him began to truly come to life. Horses and donkeys were braying as supplies from the merchants and nearby farms were carted to be sold later or replenish the wares of restaurants all over. Voices were rising over the gentle din, hawking their wares, but from the inside of The Skulking Sheep it was impossible to hear anything from the outside. The pub was supposed to keep people inside, after all. 

He was bent over the bar, writing in his notebook with his brows furrowed in concentration. It was as if he made a mistake in his writing then the whole passage would lose its meaning.

The nightmares are getting more frequent. Before they would only happen once every few months, now I’m lucky if I go a week without another one. It’s driving me crazy, I’m almost afraid to go to sleep now in case I wake up with my house burned down. I hate this, I hate how the dreams make me feel, but writing in this diary helps a bit. I don’t even know what they mean, truth be told. Does this dream have some sort of meaning? It’s exactly the same, every single time, not a single detail changed. Or perhaps my mind is just start to fold on itself and this is just its weird way of manifesting. 

I don’t even know what frightens me so much about the dream: the body, the knives, their eyes, or something else. It’s just when that moment happens, when they look at me, I get so terrified and then I wake up. But their daggers are horrifying, there’s something sharp and silver about them, as if they’re sentient as well. And the body is alive, it’s bleeding in the dream. It 

“Good morning, Ricardo,” a sweet, playful voice interrupted his thoughts.

Thankfully Ricardo did not startle easily, or else he might have jumped and ruined his whole page. Instead he turned his head to look at the elf leaning against the bar and gave her a smile that reflected the one already on her face. “Regan,” he replied, sitting up straight and wincing as his back protested at the movement. Goodness he needed to learn how to sit better, he would be hunched over like an old man before he even reached his forties. “Did Dogberry need something?” 

“Not yet, but if he catches you writing on the job again he’ll throw quite the fuss,” Regan replied, although the way she said the words implied that she would find such a situation very amusing if it happened. “You’ve been writing for a long time, actually. Anything interesting? Not that I mean to pry, but it’s rare these days to see a man who has such a talent!”

“Ah,” Ricardo started, trying not to appear too nervous about her scrutiny. “Nothing I’m going to publish, to be honest. It is more own thoughts, writing helps me organize them.” He didn’t want to use the word diary, something about it not only felt juvenile, but also like he opening himself up to the world for something to go terribly wrong. It was as if the knowledge that a diary was nearby activated every nosey idiot within fifty miles to try and pry at what he was looking at.

“Oh, I see!” Regan said with a bright smile, looking down a little as she giggled. “I’m sorry for assuming, I just thought with how concentrated you were…oh forget it. It’s a big secret and I don’t want to pry.” 

Ricardo closed the book and chuckled a little. “You need not worry. Everyone’s a little curious, and honestly if it was actually a story worth of merit you would be the first person I would tell it to.”

The smile that lit her face was like fresh sunshine, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her pointed ear almost absently. He could see her cheeks flushing, and her eyes quickly darted around before alighting on the newspaper folded and tucked beneath the journal. “What is this? The Lizards lost another province?” She reached out and snatched the paper out from under him and peered at it for half a second before showing him the headline.

**TURMOIL IN TENEB TIRIEL: LIZARD LORDS LOSE ANOTHER PROVINCE!**

“Look at that!” Regan gasped. “The Lizards have lost even more ground, even though they have all of their technology in their grasp!” She attempted to read more of what was under the headline, but she gave up with a sigh after a few seconds and nearly crumpled the paper from the force of her closing it again. “The war has really started the worry me. I can’t decide which of the Six are worst, and they’re all growing more crazy by the week I swear.” 

Ricardo did not speak. A moment later Regan seemed to decide that he wasn’t going to say anything at all and gave him a wan smile. “But there is no need for us in Foxdale to worry about that. The Green Mother protects all who stand upon elven soil.”

Finally Ricardo opened his mouth, but before he could respond they were both interrupted by a loud harrumphing coming from somewhere closer the floor. The both of them looked down at the cranky, balding dwarf who was glaring up at them with a gaze that made Regan shrink away a little, even though she was twice the height of the dwarf.

“And what are you two slackers doing here?” the dwarf demanded, his beard swinging as he head whipped around to glare at Ricardo, then Regan. His gaze noted the tray tucked under Regan’s arm and the towel sticking out of her pocket, and irritation flickered briefly across his expression as he clearly couldn’t find any good reason to berate the elf. However when he turned to Ricardo his face darkened. “Especially you! What are you doing here sitting at the bar when there’s work to be done! If I wanted someone to sit at this bar all the time I would spend less money on a statue than your salary!”

“I’ve already done everything, Dogberry,” Ricardo said calmly, slipping his journal into his pocket. 

Dogberry snorted, a fearsome noise that sounded more akin to a horse than a creature nearly ten times smaller, and put his hands on his hips. “Oh really? Even the floor?”

“That was the first thing I did when I came in,” Ricardo replied, waving to the immaculately sparkling floor beneath them. 

The frown on Dogberry’s brow deepened. “Stocked the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Polished the—”

“Two hours ago,” Ricardo replied before he could finish, reaching over to tap one of the glasses behind the bar. Dogberry was always meticulous about the state of the glassware, to the point of saying if they didn’t blind him when he held it up to the sunlight then they had to do it all over again.

“Don’t you get smart with me, lad,” Dogberry snarled a little. “Wiped the windows, set the tables, watered the flowers, repainted the sign?” 

“I watered the flowers,” Regan piped up helpfully, raising her hand. To be fair it had been a rather absurd question to ask Ricardo, as she was always the one who handled the flowers and plants outside.

Ricardo tried not to sigh. “Yes and yes, all of it is done except for the sign—” he rushed on as Dogberry opened his mouth, raising his voice a little to cut him off “—and only because the kitchen hasn’t told me what the menu for today is going to be. I’ll write it down as soon as they do.” 

The dwarf harrumphed again, in that particular and contradictory manner that people sometimes did when they found everything in order, and hated it. Instead he went to the bar and climbed the steps to his stool and began to pour himself a drink, even though Ricardo knew that if either of them so much as touched the beer in a fashion that told Dogberry that the drink would not be for a paying customer then the tongue-lashing they received would nearly strip the flesh from their bones. 

Regan watched him for a moment before giggling. “You know I had no idea how much beer truly existed before I met you,” she said conversationally. “I mean I knew beer existed from wheat—” Dogberry gave a small snort “—but ever so many types and from so many different grains! And now with a dwarf in one of the elven regions I see them all the time!”

“Don’t get too used to it, sweetcakes,” Dogberry grumbled, wiping the foam from his beard. “You have any idea how embarrassing it is for a dwarf of all things to live in a place like this? I’ll be gone soon enough.”

“Oh will you?” Regan replied, her gaze at once turning sly. “A lifetime ban means a lifetime ban as far as I remember. Do tell me how the dwarves have mastered the art of resurrection, because I think the undead would love to know.” She watched as Dogberry choked a little and laughed. “Besides even if you died and came back to life I doubt the dwarves would let you back in Steelside anyway, considering you were kicked out because you lost more money than any one dwarven banker had in a whole century.”

“Now you listen here—”

Ricardo was snickering at the two of them starting to go at it and figured that at this rate he could probably just go back to writing and neither of them would notice. Then he heard something strange that his ears immediately focused on: the sound of metal boots striking against the ground. He jumped to his feet, cutting off the ensuing banter of the other two as they both turned to look at him in surprise, but neither of them managed to get a word out before the doors to the pub opened and two humans in full armor stepped in, the symbol of the royal crest emblazoned on their breastplates. 

The one on the left, a large man from the way his shoulders carried his armor, looking around and caught Ricardo with his scrutinizing gaze. “Are you the owner of this establishment?” he demanded.

“That would be me,” Dogberry corrected him, coming around from behind the counter and glaring fearlessly up at the two men. Ricardo wondered for a moment who was the less intimidated of the two groups: the half-drunk dwarf or the two fully armed and armored men. “Now what you you want? If you’re comin’ to drink then leave your weapons at the door, no need for that nonsense here.”

“We are here on business, dwarf,” the man replied. “We are willing to pay a modest fee of five gold pieces—”

“Modest!” Dogberry exploded with laughter. “In Axhelm they’d chuck you both out on your miserable asses if you tried to say that to a dwarf’s face.”

“For five gold pieces!” the man barked, interrupting. “We are willing to buy this…establishment,” he gave the place a scornful look over, “and take all responsibilities of ownership out of your hands.” 

Dogberry crossed his arms, looking more amused than insulted this time. “And what can you possibly want with my pub?” he asked, giving them both an equally scornful examination. “Neither of you two boneheads—I beg pardon of any undead in advance—know the first thing about running a business, unless your business involves hitting something with a sword. I’d do better selling my pub to the local cows, at least they can provide milk.”

His words appeared to be having the intended effect, as Ricardo could see their hands tightening into fists and it was only their own restraint (or perhaps Dogberry’s remarks) that stopped them from drawing their swords immediately. These weren’t the type of men who took well to being talked back to, and to be honest probably never had to deal with such a thing before. Ricardo knew the type: bullying, brash men who were used to their very presence and appearance intimidating others into doing what they wanted in case something bad would happen to them. It was quite the hilarious stroke of irony that they had to deal with Dogberry of all people, as while dwarves were stubborn by their nature Dogberry in particular could have made rocks jealous with how little he was moved by anything. 

“By the declaration of the Emperor of Rivellon,” the one on the right said, his tone indicating that he had been playing nice before but now his patience was at an end and he was bringing out the big guns, “who’s forces now protect the whole region of Foxdale, all business establishments are to be either purchased at the end of the month or declare their allegiance. Doing so would be very wise for you, indeed.”

His words were like barbs in Ricardo’s stomach, and he couldn’t stop himself from interjecting. “Rivellon has no Emperor,” he said, his voice calm and yet tense, slicing through the air of the pub. 

The larger of the two men looked at him and decided that he was a better person to talk to, with Dogberry muttering to his companion about how “protection” was just a fancy way of them saying “occupation.” He took a step forward, squaring himself up to Ricardo and looking him right in the eye. To give him credit he at least tried not to look too intimidated at the blazing inferno in front of him. “The future king Avaritia has graciously decided to spread his generous hand over the five elven provinces, setting his foundation for his eventual rise to the throne. You would be wise to remember that, boy, and to thank him for his consideration.”

Feather-blond hair swept stylishly across his head, Avaritia always wanted to project his air of elegance and refinement down to every strand. But it never worked, for the scornful blue eyes that always looked down at everyone else from his long nose always marred his image beyond repair. And worst was that if he was even aware of it, he did not care. His hand would always come up to adjust his glasses better upon his nose and then he would dismiss anyone as easily as that, if they were no more than a fly in his presence, while he went back to absorbing himself in the tasks he had set out before himself.

Ricardo shook himself from the image, coming back to the present. He couldn’t have spaced out for more than a moment or two, because the soldier was still clearly awaiting a response, and he met the man’s eyes again. Although this time, he noticed, Dogberry and the other guard had quieted down and were looking at him for a response as well. Ricardo squared his shoulders, trying not to smirk at the fact that he was a good inch or two taller than the man before him, and spoke in a voice that would brook no argument: “I think we’ve heard enough. If neither are you are going to buy a drink, then you should leave before things get ugly.”

“Threatening the heralds of Emperor Avaritia is not a good idea, boy,” one of the soldiers laughed. 

“It’s a warning, not the threat,” Ricardo said, taking a step forward until his chest was pressed right up against the armor of the guard’s uniform. “Get out.”

He knew it was happen long before it did, but Ricardo made no move to prevent it. The soldier look at him with derision and anger, and then suddenly his fist, sheathed in the protection of his thick metal gauntlet, flew out to crash squarely against the soft flesh of Ricardo’s cheek. Except it was the guard who cried out in pain from the impact, falling back a step as he cradled his hand, while Ricardo for the most past seemed unharmed except for a small cut that was starting to bleed.

Everyone else stared in utter amazement, while the injured guard sputtered in his rage and embarrassment. He launched himself at Ricardo again, determined to make the younger man falter or at the very least show some sign of pain. And yet while punch after punch landed, Ricardo stoically bore it all, even when the fist ended up hitting him directly in the eye. Red bloomed across his skin from the hit, but the soldier still seemed to be the one who was suffering more, as he was holding back grunts of pain each time his blows connected.

“Hey, cut it out!” Regan could finally take the sight no more and began to run forward. “Stop it! I’ll get the guard!”

The other soldier moved, in a flash he had grabbed her arm and yanked her back, making her cry out. “Didn’t you understand, you stupid bitch?” the soldier snarled, starting to draw his sword. “We are the guard now!”

That finally sprung Ricardo into action. He swatted the next blow away from his face easily, and used his opening to grab the soldier by his neck and lift him off his feet. The man sputtered and choked, amazement and fear flitting across his face as Ricardo performed the feat with seemingly no effort whatsoever, and tried to flail his legs to kick at the man. Ricardo was unfazed and turned, using the strength of his body to hurl the soldier into his smaller companion. The two of them smashed together with an earsplitting clang of metal against metal and fell into one of the tables, shattering it under their combined weight. Regan managed to break free in the chaos, sprinting away until she managed to jump over the bar to put some distance between her and the men.

They were busy trying to pick themselves up and tripping over planks of wood, swearing and looking for their swords. Ricardo strode over, his eyes bright like fire, and grabbed the both of them by the back of their necks and hauled them up. “Like I said,” he snarled, giving them both a shake, “this particular shithole isn’t up for purchase.” 

“What did you call it?!” Dogberry snapped.

“So you get out, now, and never even think of returning” Ricardo finished before hauling them over to the door and throwing them into the street.

The both of them looked up to try and glare at Ricardo, but paled under the burning fury in his eyes. Without another word they picked themselves up and hurried away, and Ricardo slammed the door behind them.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, for a moment imagining that he could smell smoke, before he turned around and headed back.

Dogberry was tapping his foot, standing directly in front of the mess he had just made of the table. “You’re buying a new one."


	2. Shadow of the Dragon

The rest of the day had dragged itself along almost comically slow after the incident. Of course the task of cleaning up the mess had fallen right on Ricardo and Regan’s shoulders. They had spent nearly an hour sweeping up all of the splinters and broken glass while also carrying the pieces of the table out back to throw away later. It had dragged on, mostly because Dogberry insisted from his perch on one of the barstools that they clean up every single sliver, if he found anything later then it was coming out of their paychecks.

Ricardo rolled his eyes and had half a mind to take Dogberry up on his challenge, but the he thought better of it. He was betting on a dwarf not being able to find something shiny, like a piece of glass. He’d definitely lose.

Gradually some customers wandered in throughout the day. Ricardo could see the puzzled looks being shot in their direction and tried to ignore it, muttering to Regan that they could actually be doing their jobs instead of stuck on Dogberry’s inane, menial task of combing over the area looking for microscopic bits of debris.

“Oh, I don’t know, I kind of like it,” Regan said as he watching Dogberry cheerfully greet the newcomer. If there was one thing that never failed to make the dwarf happy, it was more customers in his tavern. “And so does he, look at him go! I swear it is as if he can smell the money on them.”

He snorted down a laugh, glancing at Dogberry to make sure he didn’t notice anything. “The clothes,” he said quickly. “Look at what he is wearing; linen instead of cotton. He has more money if he can afford to walk around in clothes like that.”

Regan thought about that for a moment. “Well I suppose if you say so,” she said, dumping the contents into a small sack they had brought with them. “The Green Mother provides everything for us, so it’s hard to understand why people take some things as more valuable than others, when they are all equal gifts from Her.”

Ricardo never quite knew what to say whenever Regan started talking about the elven goddess. Not that he didn’t understand the concept or their beliefs, but it wasn’t really something he felt as if he could converse about, being such an outsider to their culture. “Everyone else breaks it down differently,” he tried to say. “Some fabric feels softer and better than others, or does something more useful, so people place more value on it.”

Of course Regan looked as if she had no idea what he was talking about. He thought it would be a pointless endeavour, and he tried not to sigh. “Forget it,” he said with a small chuckle. “It isn’t that important anyway.”

There was a loud, pointed clearing of the throat from Dogberry, and Ricardo gave a small wave over his shoulder and he dumped the last shards of glass from his bare hands into the bag as well.

More and more people began to trickle in as the day drew on, particularly after noon. It was always the same crowd, even if once in a while the faces were unfamiliar. Lower-class elves (many who chuckled and smiled at Regan and tried to pinch her hips as she walked by,) humans, and the occasional undead dominated the population of The Skulking Sheep. Things started to get a little more rowdy as time went on, especially after the town bard showed up with his lute strung over his shoulder and offered to play in the tavern in exchange for drinks.

By the time the tavern had begun to practically burst with noise, the sun had already set. Off-key singing and boisterous, loud yelling intermingling with the laughter saturated the air. Naturally, Dogberry was in the center of it all, especially around his richer and more attractive customers who he seemed to know all by name, buttering them up in some manner. Ricardo and Regan, on the other hand, had their hands full for most of the night, running back and forth between tables, delivering food and drink, and having the occasional chat with the more regular customers when Dogberry wasn’t looking. That involved drinking, too, as their boss had no qualms about his employees drinking on the job if it didn’t impede their work and if it encouraged customers to buy more as well.

It was around midnight that Dogberry had beckoned Ricardo over, extricating himself from his crowd for the moment and now standing in the doorway of his “office,” for lack of the better word. Ricardo walked over, the room swinging only a little he told himself, and was prepared to defend himself to the fullest against whatever imagined offence Dogberry had taken into his head that he had done. He had barely opened his mouth though when Dogberry cut him off in an uncharacteristically cheerful voice, “You should take a break. In fact, I’m insisting upon it! Twenty to thirty minutes, go outside and clear your head a little, I’ll send Regan after you.”

Ricardo frowned a little at that. He knew the dwarf’s real motivations to sending him outside; he didn’t want his employees potentially saying or doing something embarrassing in front of his favorite, rich customers. “I can still wait the tables."

All he got in response was a bark of a laugh. “You’re not the only one who works here, Ricardo,” Dogberry said, his tone gruff in a way that wouldn’t take another no for an answer. “Well, go on! Get some fresh air or something!”

Still frowning but knowing that he couldn’t do anything about it, Ricardo went and did as he was ordered. The night was heavy with dark, the pools of shadow where the light pouring from the windows of the Sheep did not reach. He found himself a nice spot behind one of the back windows, half-in and half-out of the light. He looked around for a moment to make sure he was completely alone before reaching his hand into his pocket.

The coin he pulled out gleamed in the bits of light that did manage too make their way across its surface, polished and worn by years of handling. The faces were still legible, the writing not faded yet, and in some parts of the fragmented empire it was still considered a piece of currency. In other, it was an outdated relic of the past. A simple gold coin, the back emblazoned with the royal coat of arms, and the front with the profile of a face...

_The shadows and gazes of the six people looming above him pressed down like a shroud. Yet they were so bright, practically impossible to make out any of them past their veils of light and mist, except for the one closest to his fallen frame, who was busy adjusting his glasses and clothes into a perfect state once more._

_Avaritia tossed aside the knife carelessly, not even flinching as it clattered noisily away. The blade was unbloodied, their only casualty being Ricardo’s clothes, which hung off of him in strips._

_The clink of a coin hitting the floor in front of him made him snap his attention up to it, to the blank face staring up at the ceiling impassively. It had rolled only an inch or so away from the pool of blood that his dripping lips were causing to grow steadily bigger. No matter how many times he wiped them he kept coming away with his hand smeared with red._

_“This is you, your worth,” Avaritia said snidely. “The only reason it isn’t bronze is because you came from father’s loins.”_

_One of the other figures laughed, his voice like bells made of rust and glass, but went deathly silent as Avaritia’s head turned to stare at him. There were a few heavy beats of silence that passed before he looked back down at Ricardo. “The day you show me you’re worth more than this,” he gestured to the coin, “then I’ll happily pay you back a thousandfold.”_

The door to the Sheep barged open, announcing Regan as she stumbled out of the tavern, wobbling with every step and giggling constantly. At first Ricardo thought she must have been with someone with how much she was laughing, but then he saw that she was completely alone. She grabbed the corner of the wall for balance and took some deep breaths, and somehow she seemed to spot him. “Ricardo!” she squeaked, immediately making her way over to him, using the wall as a support before she was close enough to hug him.

He caught her before she could fall over completely, where she proceeded to just about melt in his arms like the fluffiest of cats. “Hello,” he said, laughing and holding her until she managed to right herself. “What in the world happened to you? You know you can’t hold your alcohol, you shouldn’t even be half this drunk.”

Regan giggled again, messily fixing her hair and leaning against the wall with him. “I’m not that drunk!” she protested, even thought she was laughing with every word. “And I really don’t drink thish mush,” she frowned and bit her lips, as if that could somehow stop her slurring, proceeding to speak with an exaggerated slowness of a drunkard choosing their words very carefully. “But there was that cute elf who kinda likes me and he keeps buying drinks for him and me, Dogberry likes it so I don’t try to stop him.”

Heat flashed across Ricardo’s face and Regan must have seen something in his expression, since she chuckled and pressed closer to him until their shoulders were touching. “Oh he wouldn’t do anything to me,” she said with all the self-assurance in the world. “He’s not that type of guy, and I have you around to protect me, don’t I?”

She always knew how to say something that left him floundering, not sure of what to say. Instead he decided to play it softer, and chuckled. “Haven’t I always since day one?” he answered.

“Oh yesh,” Regan said, her voice a murmur and clearly not understanding that she was slurring a little again. “You’re so great about that, such a polite gentleman and always so protective when you think that sshomething is wrong, it’s really schweet. I can’t believe you haven’t managed to get yourself a wife yet with that kind of attitude.” She laid her head on his shoulder.

“Ah,” Ricardo said, slipping his coin back into his pocket. “Perhaps I just haven’t met the right person yet.” The smooth, usual evasion of the question that led others to drop the line of questioning.

This time, though, Regan was not one to give up. “Like whom?” she asked slyly, leaning on him further so their faces were inches apart. “We’ve known each other for a really long time, Ricardo, don’t you think I would be a good wife?” He could see how pink her cheeks were from her confession, although how much of it was from alcohol and how much from her own shyness was hard to tell. “I’d make a good wife to you, Ricardo, I shwear,” she nuzzled her head against him, her lips steadily inching closer to his.

As sharp as a hook, the memory snagged him. His senses immediately clogged with the smell of wine and fear.

_The maid’s pathetic sobs sounded so small and pathetic from the corner of the bed. She was half-curled upon herself, trying desperately to hold the shreds of her clothes against herself in a vain attempt to shield her body from the world. It was little use, her hands only able to do so much._

_He was in the doorway, trembling, feeling even smaller than he normally did in his twelve years of age. His heart was pounding, horror so thick in his veins that he felt numb all over, unable to move. He wanted to run, wanted to hide forever from the scene, but his legs refused to move. Tears burned in his eyes, the only warmth he had, rolling down his cheeks in thick and heavy drops._

_A splash of wine landed right across the maid's head, soaking strips of her hair against her face while the rest ran down her body in streams, coloring the darkening bruises blooming across her skin with translucent red. She trembled and wept and hid her gaze from the bright figure tossing wine at her from his goblet, laughing all the while._

_“Why are you crying, bastard? Take a look!” the voice from the light demanded, sharp and golden. “It's your first time seeing a woman after all, right? What are you waiting for? Mount her and show her the fierce power of the ‘dragon!'” He cackled, a terrible, vile sound that crawled down Ricardo’s spine like claws. He emptied the rest of the goblet's contents onto her broken body_

He brought his hands up to Regan’s shoulders, holding her in place as her lips came but an inch or so away from his face. His mouth felt dry and he had to swallow a few times and keep his breathing steady so his voice would not shake while he spoke to her. “Forgive me Regan, but I cannot.” Despite the regret in his voice, it was still firm. “I wish I could tell you why, but..." he sighed "you just have to believe me when I say I cannot give you what you desire."

Regan looked at him, sadness and disappointed clear in her face, but then she tried to cover it up with a smile. Her eyes were clouded with her drunkenness, but she seemed to understand where he was coming from. “I am sorry too,” she said, her voice quiet. “But I hope you can change your mind someday. You’re jusht so amazing, you’re better than any man I’ve ever met and you deserve to be happy, you deserve a woman who can make you happy.”

He tried to think of a reply while he heart sat uneasily in his chest. At least until a sound reached him, cutting through the singing and dancing drunkards lurking inside The Skulking Sheep. Metal boots, a plethora of them. Over Regan’s shoulder he could see the shapes appearing out of the darkness. Soldiers. Ones adorned in polished armor and flawless fabric, swords showing openly on their belts, faces concealed behind grim masks.

Without even really thinking, Ricardo grabbed Regan and pulled her out of the light, stealing them both away into the deepest depths of the pub's shadow, praying that the approaching collective had not seen them.

“Oh! Oh yes Ricardo! Please!” Regan gasped, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing against him. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve dreamed about this kind of thing between us?”

She was far too close to him now, pressing every inch of her body against his in a way that would have been incredible if it weren’t for what was going on right in front of him. “Regan!” he hissed, trying to pry her off.

“Mm, Ricardo,” she groaned back, shivering. “Say my name again, like you’re commanding me. I like domineering men, I-"

“Now is not the time...” Ricardo tried to extricate himself and take another gander, but Regan’s hands grabbing his shirt and her lips kissing his neck made it impossible to do anything and...oh have mercy was that her breast she was shoving into his hand?

“Then we can go back to my abode after our shift is done!” Regan replied instantly. “Or yours, oh to be in your bed, in your arms like this, you can have everything-"

“Who is the owner of this establishment?!” a booming voice echoed, bringing every scrap of sound to a screeching halt. Even Regan froze, going tense like a startled animal.

There was a bet of silence, then two. Right as the third one ended, Ricardo heard Dogberry’s voice. “That would be me, ya loud lump!"

Everything became deathly still.

“Clear out, all of you!” the voice ordered. When a wave of protest rose up to argue, his voice snapped again. “Move it!” It was clear in his tone that he was not afraid to use force.

A shuffle of noise announced the customers leaving: chairs scrapping, voices grumbling, the swish and clink of coats and cloaks being collected and people poured out of the tavern, all of them looking back constantly at what was going on where they left. Following the crowd out on their heels was a soldier, acting as a shepherd to ensure the others went far enough away so they didn't catch an eyeful of events to come.

Still hiding in the shadow of the building, Ricardo and Regan remained perfectly still. Belatedly, he noticed that Regan’s breast was still clutched in his hand and he quickly let go of it. The rest of the soldiers soon came marching out with Dogberry an inch behind them. The dwarf looked more enraged that Ricardo had ever seen him, his crinkled and aged eyes glaring fearlessly at the man above him. He was no ordinary soldier, as it was obvious from his mirror-bright, silvery armor emblazoned with the coat of arms across its chest, not to mention the silver clasp on his left shoulder that held his cloak in place. There were two contraptions strapped to his forearms, some strange metallic construction that seemed to end in a long barrel that ended up reaching only an inch or two past his wrists.

“What is the meaning of this nonsense?!” Dogberry demanded, his own yell rising to an impressive timbre in his anger. “You can’t just waltz on in here and tell my paying customers to leave and expect to get away with it! I don’t know who this Avaritia is but he can kiss my hairy arse for all I care! My patrons-"

“Enough, dwarf,” the man snapped, coldly cutting him off. Much to Ricardo’s surprise, Dogberry stopped talking. “Now tell me, who was it who injured the two soldiers who came here this morning?”

Ricardo felt a cold, hard dread settling in his stomach. Every nerve, every pore of his body was tense, ready to himself from whatever wrath the men were about to bring down on all of them. His hot breath clashing with the icy night air.

Dogberry glanced up at them for a long moment, hands on his hips, then he snorted. “It was me,” he said without a hint of doubt. “I bested both of those bootlickers with my dwarven strength! How do you like that, you goat-humping waste of skin!"

The expression of the man was unreadable as he extended his arm, pointing the barrel that was attached right up to Dogberry’s face. Before there was a chance for anyone to even raise an eyebrow, there was a blast of thunder...and Dogberry’s head exploded in a cloud of blood and bone.

Regan shrieked, the sound piercing through the night like a knife.

He could feel it. The roar of blood, the fire building in his gut. An expression of untamed fury plastered across his face as he emerged out of the shadows of the tavern, eyes now a blazing orange. He could barely think, he could only see the scene playing over and over in his head, of Dogberry's butchered remains, the blood soaking the earth like a broken casket of scarlet wine. Blurred vision, a hissing in his ear like water boiling away on a hot pan. He didn't know when he had started running towards them, nor when he had started to scream like a rabid wolf. Kill, kill, kill, KILL!

Another blast of thunder rocketed through the still night air, where Ricardo’s stomach began to heave with the weight of the man-made lightning bolt, causing him to snap out of his fury like a bird struck in mid-flight. It was all he could do to simply gasp, the agony radiating from his gut so potent that he lacked the strength to even cry out. Hot, hot blood poured from the wound, he could feel it dripping down his skin, soaking his clothes, drops even falling to the ground in front of him. Slowly, he pressed his hand to the injury, more out of instinct than anything. The pain seared the more the crimson water seeped.

The soldier looked on with a terrifying impassiveness. Completely different compared to the lackeys from earlier. Slowly, he started to circle around Ricardo, examining him as a man of science would some kind of strange, exotic animal. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? The wonders of technology.” He spoke casually, as if he himself was one of the patrons in the Sheep and they were discussing the matter over Dogberry’s best ale, all the while carefully stepping over the dwarf’s body lying not three feet from them. Something crunched wetly under his boot. “Avaritia easily acquired it for his most able troops. The method is so simple it's genius. First, buy the imps' services, then bribe and blackmail the lizards into acquiring the resources, and finally sell the finished product to the dwarves for even more money. And on and on it continues, more money to the pile.” He held out the cannon on his arm to show it in the light. He was moving in an ever-tightening spiral with Ricardo right in the center, and his arm was only a foot or so away from him. “I have no idea where his majesty acquired such designs in the first place, but I adore the results,” he continued, watching in amusement as Ricardo sputtered, blood dripping down his chin. “Sadly for you, you won’t be around to enjoy it for much longer. You need to be made an example of.”

There was a small, choked sob from Regan, but thankfully in the heat of the moment no one really seemed to notice or care.

“All other races need to learn their place under our new Emperor,” the soldier said with a chuckle. “Elves, dwarves, lizards, undead, imps, even lesser humans such as yourself.” One hand reached out and with the back of his fingers, stroking Ricardo’s cheek for a bare second. Even in the darkness, the contrast of the soldier’s pale skin against Ricardo’s darker tone was stark. "This is the world now."

It was as if the touch were the lone flame upon an ocean of oil. Ricardo's bloodstained hands shot up and grabbed the soldier’s, wrenching the arm away from his head and pointing the barrel of the gun away. The soldier gave a sort of protesting yell, which died in a horrified choke as his gaze snapped down to the wound on Ricardo’s stomach. It was no longer bleeding, rather a horrific smoke rising from where the bloody hole had been cauterised, leaving a terrible dark splotch behind. Ricardo’s eyes were full of fire, glowing with a fierce light that reflected off the polished surface of the cannon as he forced the soldier’s arm backwards, the barrel now pointing directly at the man’s face just as he had done with Dogberry not some minutes ago. There was the sound of thunder, and then the soldier’s head was gone.

Ricardo could hear shouts of alarm and the clanking of boots as the rest of the soldiers fell back in alarm. He let go of the corpse of the man, watching it fall right next to Dogberry’s like some kind of morbid portrait. For a moment, he stared at the body of the dwarf. The fury rose, too vast and terrible to even comprehend, much less control. It yawned wide, swallowing up everything in him in its maw. He was drowning in it, suffocating.

A sound broke through the night, and he realised it was coming from him.

One of the soldiers moved, Ricardo leapt, the sound in his chest unleashing itself in a terrible, inhuman noise. His fists hit flesh, pummelling over and over until he could no longer recognise the face of the soldier under all of the red coating his knuckles. The others were yelling, drawing their swords, hacking away at him, but each time their blades cut his skin the wounds would immediately cauterise once again. Heat rolled on his tongue, liquid flame dripped from his mouth like spittle. Something was building up in his gut, something both born of his rage and yet utterly separate from it. When he opened his mouth to howl, a river of fire poured from the depths of his throat.

_The six white figures turned to look at him, still holding their daggers plunged into the living corpse of the figure on the throne, except this time the figure was alive and twitching. A gurgling sound arose. The blood spreading across the shroud was as fresh and bright as a bowl of summer cherries._

The flames poured over the ground, lighting up the night in its terrible orange beauty, bringing a surreal clarity to the whole scene. Like the blood, the flames pooled outward from around dark-skinned figure, catching the soldiers around him in its grasp, and their screams added a grisly symphony to the air, undercut by Ricardo’s senseless screaming at the figures that only he could see.

Dogberry and the soldier were the only ones silent, waiting for the flames to start consuming them as well.

Regan stumbled back from the wave of heat, barely able to see through her hysterical sobbing, but even then she couldn't escape the sight before her. In the midst of the inferno, so bright that she had to squint to see through it properly, she could see a shadow starting to emerge. Its shape was impossible to tell, but it was enormous, with wings stretched from its body into the heart of the sky.

***

Far in the distance, standing at the top of the rise, a older man’s head snapped up as a speck of orange glowed in the distance. His hands tightened on his staff and he pulled his cloak closer about his body. “Ah,” he breathed out, his voice triumphant. "At long last, I've found you..."


	3. From Fire

White. Blinding. Everywhere.

Down the hall. Down the hall again. His feet flying without any sound, hurtling along like how the bullet had hurtled out of the cannon to blast through Dogberry’s head.

Where was it? He knew it was here. He knew it would come. It always did, always would.

Ricardo could feel his eyes straining, his lungs burning as his little legs pumped to keep himself going. He had to find the door, he had to. Why did he have to, though? He knew what he would find.

There it was. He could see it, looming and leering over him, the double doors that were so tall that he couldn’t see where they began. They simply went up and up until they vanished, right into the very heavens. Somehow unconquerable, indomitable. Laughing at him, mocking his efforts, jeering at the stupidity of opening this door each and every time, knowing the result would always be the same.

There was a ringing in his ears, and it took him a strange, bizarre moment of disconnect to realize it was his own voice screaming. He slammed into the door full force. It remained unmoved. This time he did not hesitate, immediately smashing his fist into it with everything he had.

_The clink of the coin as it rolled toward him, stopping just inches away from the pool of his own blood. The light caught on the face of the figure as it landed heads up. On the Emperor’s face._

His fist slammed again. He didn’t feel anything. He should have. There was no way he was punching the door like this and not damaging something. Alas, he didn’t care.

_The only thing he felt was an overwhelming sadness and other hot, swelling mix of emotions as he listened to the boy sobbing in front of him. The boy was young and ever so round, his plump body shaking with each massive sob torn from his chest. Gently, Ricardo reached forward and laid a hand on his shoulder._

Why wouldn’t it open? Why did it never just open?!

_An unintelligible, garbled screaming as a young man that could only be described as gorgeous lashed out at a figure dressed in a maid’s attire. Except there was a wild look of terror in his eyes as he advanced upon her, his lips forming words that Ricardo could not understand._

Slam. Slam. Blood was smearing on the door. His heart was pounding in time with his fists against the wood. His blood was rushing so hard through his veins that he thought he would faint

_The figure in the chair looked little more than a robed skeleton, yet in stark contrast to the appearance his face was smooth and untouched by wrinkles. He did not look up or so much as twitch when Ricardo carefully seated himself next to him, too preoccupied with staring into the silver orb that he held clutched in one hand. The light of it reflected in his glassy eyes._

_“So you see, everyone can create their own world…” he spoke whispered, as if Ricardo had interrupted him in the middle of some sort of lecture. “But many are just too lazy to.”_

The other hand joined in. Every bone in his hand rattled with the force of his blows against the unmovable, impenetrable door. His teeth clacked together in his head so loudly that he felt his skull tingling from it.

_The pitter patter of blood was the only sound his ears could pick up in the deafening silence. He had to crane his head up to look at the figure in front of him. Her blond hair framed her face in an almost dazzling light, except there was nothing beautiful about the dead, blank look in her eyes, or the sword she held openly in one hand._

_Her lips parted. A word, whispered, emerged in a hiss of air. “Disappear.”_

Still screaming, still punching, his throat nearly cracked from the intensity of his scream as he punched and…the door flew open. Immediately blasting open wide as if he had shot it with a cannon, to the room beyond -

***

Panting, gasping, with a ragged cry still on his lips, Ricardo jolted awake. It was freezing, and for a moment he couldn’t explain why, until he realized that his body was covered in the iciest of sweat. He shuddered all over, the air chilling his skin, and he tried to wipe himself off a little with his blanket. While he tried to calm himself down and shake the last fragments of the dream away from his mind, he glanced around at the room he had woken up in, which was both strangely familiar and utterly foreign to him.

Plain wooden walls, a single bed with a lumpy mattress and a crooked blanket. A dresser against the wall. A small, circular brown rug in the middle of the room, and a window where a hazy, watery light shone through the thick glass. Finally, a vase holding a small bouquet of half-wilted flowers inside, because of course.

An inn, he could recognize the decor anywhere. But it wasn’t the Sheep, he would have known right away if it was. So where?

The rush of pondering had suddenly reminded him of his injury, as such his gaze immediately fell down to his chest, which he noted was now wrapped tightly in bandages. Tentatively, he lifted a hand to graze it right where he remembered the bullet piercing -

**RAGE. FIRE. BLOOD. KILL.**

He remembered the fire in his gut, spilling through his teeth, threatening to engulf him in its orange splendour. He recalled the light searing his eyes even when they were shut, the wings stretching from his body. Then came the howl, the unearthly howl arising from his throat. So inhuman that he it could only come from the most terrifying of beasts.

The sound lingered inside his head, the memory drilling into the soft core of his brain until he wanted to writhe and scream from it. Pain bloomed behind his eyeballs, causing him to slap his hands over his ears as if hoping to somehow suppress the sound. It did nothing to help.

Ricardo was so occupied with the searing sensation ripping through his skull that he did not even notice the door to his room had opened, nor the figure standing in the doorway. Not until a new voice shattered his pained thoughts like lighting across the clear blue sky.

"And they will cut through the heavens on wings forged in shadow.”

Even though Ricardo could barely gather his thoughts to focus on the strange, his word cascades across his mind like a splash of cold water.

“No sword, no spell, no man-made fire shall ever find their hearts, for they are the harbingers of the end days. The flame made flesh."

The words made no sense. Yet, as he was done speaking, the screech in Ricardo’s head had dimmed, the pain ebbing away. Eyes still watering, Ricardo looked up at the wizened man as he knelt at his side, taking care to sweep his long gray robes closer to his body as he did. With no fear, or even any introduction whatsoever, the man reached out to touch Ricardo’s bare shoulder.

“Well, well,” the old man said, his tone deeply impressed, yet holding a hint of strangely misplaced amusement. “Would you look at that. Remarkable! When I pulled you out of the earth, through all that smoke and ash and coal, scorched stone and burned bodies and whatnot, you looked like a flower made of flesh and bone. You were all torn open, covered in blood and already within Death’s grasp. Dancing with the Seven, as the undead would say. Now look at you!” He patted one of the bandages appreciatively. “Healthy as a stallion. Marvellous indeed.”

Something about the way he spoke was utterly enraging, yet Ricardo found himself more propelled by his confusion and disorientation than anything. This man knew something. Had he been there?. When the fire had finally faded? When screams dissipated like the wisps of smoke?

He launched himself to his feet and all but tackled the bearded man into the nearest wall, pinning him there with his arm against the wide neck. His eyes were burning a deep, shimmering orange, which only grew brighter as he leaned in until they were barely a few inches apart.

“Who are you and where am I?!” he demanded, a threatening growl rising from his throat. His body was nearly shaking from anticipation of a fight, waiting for the man to defend himself, to call for help - anything.

Instead, the stranger raised his empty hands, slowly, placatingly. Ricardo frowned at the movement, the manner in which it was performed was oddly tranquil, showing zero signs of fear or intimidation.

“Peace, friend,” he said softly, “I am just an old man trying to help correct all of the wrongs that he helped craft.” Then, with aching slowness, he hooked his hands around his hood and drew it back so his face was no longer in the shadows. “Maxos,” he said, with a smile. “Former Court Wizard to the Emperor of Rivellon, at your service. I have been searching for you for the last few years. You go by Ricardo, yes?”

Bright blue, incandescent eyes that blazed like a lamp being lit with an inner flame. His face was no less lined, nor his hair or beard any whiter. Every tattoo precisely painted on his face. Ricardo felt hesitation creeping into his face as fresh memories assaulted him, flickering behind his eyes. 

_A man weeping into his hands, his head bowed as if the weight of the crown on his head was too much for him to bear. He made no sound as he cried, but his shoulders noticeably shook. He looked so small, so folded in on himself._

_There was another man next to him, clothed in stunning white robes, sporting a full white beard and a white set of hair that made him both look otherworldly and utterly regal at the same time. He could not hear what the man in white was saying, but the tone was undoubtedly comforting as he reached out and patted the weeping man’s shoulder in consolation._

Maxos. He remembered now.

Ricardo had to physically shake himself from the memory, the expression on the aged man’s face told him that the wizard had not missed his interruption at all.

“I understand you do not trust me,” the older man said, “I am but a stranger, a herald on the backwind of a tragedy. I understand that you have questions. All I can say is that you must believe that all can be answered in good time. Right now, we are many miles from Foxdale, so this charming little abode we have here is our home for the night.” He gestured around him with an ironic smile. “You must take some extra time to recover. You have gone through quite a lot.” He pointed with one hand at the bed. “I rescued all of the possessions of yours I could from The Skulking Sheep. They’re under the bed.”

That finally got Ricardo to turn his attention away from the so-called wizard. There was indeed a leather satchel partially under the bed. He supposed his grip must have become loosened, for suddenly Maxos slipped out of the hold, brushing off his robes.

“When you feel ready,” the man continued, seemingly uncaring of the fact that Ricardo had not yet answered him, “come downstairs and join me for breakfast. You must be exhausted after the ordeal, and a good meal can always bring one back to feeling slightly more human.” Again that grin, as if enjoying a private joke. He gave a simple bow of the head before leaving with a sweep of his robes.

Ricardo was left alone, staring at the pile of belongings that had been collected for him. He lowered himself on wobbling knees next to satchel, slowly pawing through, finding it filled with his spare clothes that he had straggled together over the years, along with his diary tucked safely inside at the bottom, the edge of a loose piece of paper sticking out the side. Gently, he took the diary out and opened it to the page he saw, and the sight of the woman with the golden eyes greeted his inquisitive gaze.

Images swarmed into vision; Dogberry’s headless corpse spattered in blood, his own body exploding from the impact of the soldier’s projectile, the flames that surrounded him from every angle. Ricardo balled his quaking hands into fists, yet they still shook with each subtle beat of his heart.

“I am flesh, not flame,” he began chanting.

***

Maxos smiled as he poured himself a cup of tea from the fresh pot the elf barmaid had brought over, steam wafting from the surface of the red liquid, causing him to pause for a moment in order inhale the vivid scent of spice. It was always so hard to find a good pot of hibiscus tea outside of the elven lands, especially one brewed with so much care. Humans were just so lazy sometimes it baffled him. He watched as the elf placed two plates on the table in front of him, both piled with an assortment of various vegetables.

He thanked her kindly, stirring a spoonful of honey into his tea, eyes drifting upwards as Ricardo stumbled down the stairs, combing his hair messily back into place. His face still slightly damp from a rushed bathing session, his clothes clinging to the corner of his bandaged torso. At the very least, he looked much better than the days prior. When they had first arrived he was more akin to death-warmed-over.

As Ricardo passed the barmaid, she dared a glance across his feature, her face immediately flushing a hot crimson. She quickly scurried away, nearly hiding her face behind her serving tray. Ricardo raised an eyebrow at her, clearly confused.

Maxos couldn’t stop the chuckle that passed his lips, recapturing the young man’s attention. Still suspicious, though the initial aggression had substantially waned.

“We’re much further inland than the Sheep,” Maxos explained, sipping his tea. “The deeper we head, the more elves you will encounter with stricter ties to the ways of the Green Mother. Hence, the breakfast,” he gestured to the plate in front of him.

Not fare Ricardo was entirely unfamiliar with, except maybe a few oddly shaped radishes. It was certainly nothing Dogberry would have served inside of the Sheep, with some sort of “this isn’t food, this is what food eats” tirade. Zucchini bread, stewed peppers and tomatoes spooned over collard greens and several rolls of cooked eggplant with a walnut paste filling. All in all, it did smell appetizing, and he clearly hadn’t eaten in some time given how his stomach lurched eagerly at the sight of table spread. But he couldn’t eat. Not when this still felt like a trap.

Maxos continued to speak.

“And so, an innocent young lady as herself no doubt has yet to see a handsome young man with your complexion and body type. Traditional sparsely leaves room for diversity.”

Ricardo simply nodded, silent. His face immovable, tense, like he was prepared for something to leap out of the eggplant and try to stab him in the gullet.

Maxos sighed a little and pushed his plate forward.

“Breakfast?”

“No, thank you.”

He decided to not press that particular issue. Starting an argument over vegetables before their discussion even began would not get them anywhere. Before he could continue however…

“I thought all the wizards had died out.” It was a bit of a calculated statement on Ricardo’s part. He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, awaiting a reaction warily.

Maxos continued to sip his tea, seemingly unperturbed.

“For the most part, yes,” he said calmly. “I am the last of my order. Although I’d caution you in believing the tales of us being able to summon storms from a pocket of cloud. You’d be vastly disappointed. These days, the greatest magic we I have at my disposal, is knowledge.”

Maxos could not help but chuckle at the younger man’s obvious look of childish disappointment. He proceeded to tap the side of his teacup with his spoon. Immediately, the red of the tea deepened into the rich garnet colour of a full-bodied wine. He held it out for Ricardo to examine. The scent unmistakable. In that one moment, an undeniable flash of wonderment filled his eyes.

“Back to our earlier conversation,” Maxos said, tapping his cup again, the wine dissipating back into tea. “As a former wizard of the Imperial Court, I have faithfully served the last three Emperors of Rivellon. Including -” he knew where his words were leading, as such had pinned Ricardo with his unearthly blue gaze, “- our dear late Emperor Sigurd.”

Ricardo tensed.

Maxos gave him a second of silence, before continuing.

“It was a position I was well familiar with. I met Sigurd when he was a young man. I quickly gre fond of his sprite, his youthful wit. We soon became friends. I even aided him assume the throne, outmanoeuvring the machinations of his jealous siblings.” He speared one of the eggplant rolls as he talked, his posture straight and refined. One could hardly believe that they were in some random inn surrounded by elves, and not on the balcony of some lord’s palace enjoying a breakfast made by his personal chef. “We remained close for a long time. I was with him during the births of his six children. I knew one day I would have to start the cycle anew, choosing which of his children I would take the crown and continue the age of peace.”

His six children.

Ricardo’s jaw clenched, to the point where had to force his jaw to relax. His fingers had locked themselves together, the knuckles crushing one another. Even though he did not want to look away from Maxos, to take his watchful gaze from him, he was unable to look him in the eye. The beautiful barmaid was serving another platter of food to three older elves. Other customers were sitting around, chatting, enjoying their breakfasts and the early morning air. Their smiles littered with praises to the Green Mother. He turned back to Maxos.

“Are you here to kill me, then?” he asked. “To help one of the six? Because if so, can we take it outside? There’s no need to involve anyone here.”

To his surprise, Maxos laughed.

“Oh heavens no, I haven’t fought anyone in about…seventy years, in fact,” Maxos said through his chortles. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then his expression cleared.

The change in tone was stark.

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” Maxos started, his voice heavy and grave, “but I have been looking for you for a very long time.” He set down his empty cup with a heavy clink. “I remember like it happened just yesterday. Sixteen years ago, my friend and Emperor, the man who kept no secrets, came home one day and introduced a child to the rest of his family. A boy, with eyes the colour of fire. A few year later, my dear friend was found dead with six blades buried in his body. Not soon after, the country we adored began to tear itself apart. And now this.”

There was a heavy pause as Maxos, never breaking their gaze, never even blinking, reached into his bag and pulled out a rolled up newspaper. He unrolled it and tossed it between him, letting the bold letters of the headline leap out at them.

**FIRE IN FOXDALE: ACCIDENT OR ANARCHIST?**

“I know who you are,” Maxos continued. The very air seemed to shake from his words. “And I know of the power that lurks inside of you. I know you are the seventh. You are -”

Ricardo barely felt himself move. He just knew that he was suddenly on his feet and his chair was falling backwards, hitting the floor with a crash. The stares from the elves coated his body, a thicker silence descended upon the room, but it was lost upon him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spoke through a hammering heart. “I just work at a tavern. My friend Dogberry was killed in front of me, and I have to go back.” He ran his hand through his hair and let out a shaky sigh. “Thank you for breakfast.” With that, he spun around and headed out, leaving his plate and his tea untouched.

Maxos watched him go, and a sigh escaping him as Ricardo opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. He turned back to the Rivellon Times and pulled it closer, scanning the pages again.

The barmaid came to the table, fixing the chair and giving the now-vacant spot a look.

“Is there anything else I can get you, sir?” she asked, her voice filled with her customary politeness, before moving onto her real question. “And, um, if it doesn’t trouble you so much, can I ask who your handsome friend was?”

Maxos gave her a grin, noting her pink cheeks, and began to pour himself another cup of tea. “A lost lamb,” he said, “but one that is inching closer and closer to home…”

***

Clip-clip-clip went the soles of his shoes against the cold path. Ricardo knew he shouldn’t be walking this fast, it wasn’t like Maxos was following him or anything. Yet the feeling of pursuit was still there, as if something was hovering over him upon shadowed wings with every step, breathing down his spine.

His hand kept clutching at the bandages under his tunic, the cloth starting to feel like snakes across his flesh. Eventually the ill sensation became too much, leading him to tear at the bandages. It took a few, exquisitely frustrating moments before they were hanging off of his body, revealing a thick and grotesque looking scar. It shouldn’t have healed like that so quickly. He should still be hanging on death’s doorstep, not coated in new, warped skin.

The sensitive flesh danced under his skin, causing his body to contort the more pressure he put on it. Despite looking so alien, the hideous marking was a part of him, down to the last bruised cell.

This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be real.

Ricardo was practically gargling as he forced breath into his battered lungs. Breathe in, hold it, wait a few moments, breathe out. He could barely manage it, his heartbeat threatening to break through his new scar. The world around him felt like felt tighter, squeezing, choking. Conjuring fire out of his lungs.

“I…” his voice wavered, but he pressed on, telling himself to start again. He had to finish it. “I am flesh-”

A sound of thunder, a searing pain across his cheek. Even before the whistling had ceased in his ear, Ricardo had whirled around, wide-eyed like a startled cat, only to see a collection of shadows standing a ways off.

One of them had their arm extended, a familiar cylinder attached to the shooter’s arm, which was now shaking like a piece of parchment in the wind. Their faces, while contorted in panic, were instantly recognisable, along with their uniforms that appeared to singed black.

Dogberry’s bloated and bleeding corpse sprung to mind, along with a medley of grinning expressions as the surrounding solders admired the handywork of their commander.

The trickle of pain coming from the cut along Ricardo’s cheek faded into obscurity, replaced by as sensation of boiling bile gather in his throat as he felt the anger burn itself into his very bones. 

White. Blinding. Everywhere.


	4. He of Royal Blood

The fire was all around them, like a writhing, living thing hungry for flesh to devour and suck into its ever-expanding maw. It was Ricardo's progeny, and yet he was also its first victim, the flames tearing at his skin and peeling it away even while he spewed them from his mouth, his nose, and his eyes, creating and being consumed by his creation.

Yet he never paused, not even once, his attacks propelled by a rage that seemed to transcend all other emotions capable of mortal understanding. Like his anger could crack open the very heavens, like it could burn all who wronged him down to the nerve of their souls.

Some of the soldiers that night realized before it was too late that the target was beyond them. That they were pointing their blades at a mighty gale, a force of nature. In that moment of clarity, they did what any smart man would do when facing down such a being; they fled. A few took off down the muddy pathways at a dead run until they left the very town borders and hurtled into the wilderness. Others chose to hide. Barrelling into civilian houses, awakening the very confused occupants, immediately silencing them, and hiding until the dawn rose.

One, whose face still bore the bloodstains of his commander's splattered cranium, loaded what little gold the family had store away into a spare pouch. His uniform had certainly seen better days; blackened from the flames and smudged with the crimson leftovers of the elven family he had silenced only hours earlier. Their tiny household made for the ideal hiding spot, not to mention vantage point. As he peered through the window, Tamar saw the heaping body of his enemy, as well as opportunity.

***

Ricardo was still, with only charred corpses for company, littered around him like a hellish orgy. Even the stones around him were scorched black, the burns spread out in all directions in feather-shaped patterns like the corona of the sun. His own flesh was burned and bursting, like his own skin couldn't handle the weight of his insides. He looked, for all intents and purposes, dead as the rest of them.

A movement flitted by the wall of The Skulking Sheep, the shadows coalescing into Regan as she ran from her shelter and crouched, hesitatingly, at Ricardo's side. There were still embers here and there, scraps hungry for fuel, but the main brunt of the storm had died out when Ricardo collapsed. She watched him for a moment, waiting and wanting, like he would suddenly awaken from all this like so many a nightmare. As the second ticked on, she slowly reached out to rouse him.

She let out a little scream, jerking her hand away and staring in horrified shock at her palms. The skin was inflamed and already starting to blister, causing tears immediately spring from her eyes as each heartbeat sent another round of pain pulsing through her dainty hands.

"I'd advise you show a little more caution."

Regan whirled around like she had been hit by a gale. The voice was one of insultingly calmness, matched by the grey of his clothing. His footsteps made absolutely no sound against the stone, even when he knelt next to her. Two pools of blazing blue light emanated within the shadows of his hood, like his eyes were azure bonfires. He seemed completely unfazed by her scrutiny, almost to the point of being unaware of it. Old hands dug into a bag hanging off his belt, producing two large leaves. He unrolled them gingerly, whispering, "hold still," as he held them flat on his hands.

Compelled by a force she did not truly understand. Regan obeyed. The stranger continued to murmur, speaking so softly she could not fully comprehend the words, but even she could not have missed the glow that soon surrounded her hands; emitting a heat that she could feel even on her face. It swirled until it became two streams, one leading from each hand to the leaves. The blistering pink on her skin faded, along with the pain. In their place, the leaves began to smoulder instead, starting from the edges and eating inward until they had been reduced to the tiniest of ashes.

"How...did you do that?" she asked, her voice a shocked whisper. It was almost as frightening as what she had witnessed the previous night, albeit on a much more intimate level. "I've heard of such magic, like in the old elven nursery rhymes, but to think..."

The stranger looked utterly unconcerned with her words, instead bending over to look at Ricardo. His eyes unblinking. "There are still some tricks the Green Mother has yet to hide away from the world," he said as his hand hovered over the open wounds that had ravaged the younger man's body. "Still alive..." Without hesitation, he reached out and scooped Ricardo into his arms, showing a surprising amount of strength for one who looked so weathered.

Regan gasped in alarm, but he appeared unhurt, somehow immune to the force that had scorched the elf's hands. "We must leave," he said, standing up. He paused for a moment, probably realizing how that sounded. "The boy and I. You had best find a way to put all this behind you. I will look after this...Ricardo's wellbeing."

So stunned in her confusion and anger at the sudden command, Regan completely missed how the old man somehow knew Ricardo's name. "Wait a moment!" she protested, dredging up some kind of strength from the depths of her soul to throw herself in front of him. He paused, even thought she was so much smaller in both stature and strength.

"What just happened?"

He gave her a puzzled look with his lamplight eyes. "You saw for yourself."

"That's not what I mean and you know it! There is something more to it and you know what it is!" Regan couldn't stop herself from stamping her foot. It was childish in the extreme, but after seeing her boss's head blown off right in front of her and Ricardo doing...whatever he had just done, she decided she was a little entitled to know more than she did.

"What makes you think that?" the stranger asked.

A noise of frustration broke out from Regan, one that he quickly cut off with a voice that was dangerously, and quite suddenly, serious: "Forget all you saw. All of it. Whether you stay or flee is your choice to make, but the price of involving yourself will cost you dearly. If the worst comes and other soldiers arrive, you saw nothing. You are a mere Elven patron who ran from the fire. Come the dawn, the flames were gone, as was this man, and the only thing left behind were bodies." He leaned forward, eyes locked onto hers. "Should you seek to delve any deeper, your fate will not be a kind one. Understand me?"

Quivering under the weight of his words, Regan relented, looking utterly miserable as she did. However, a bit of her old rebelliousness still flickered, compelling her to speak up once more. "Wait," she asked in a wavering voice that brooked no command whatsoever. Yet the old man remained, watching as she turned ran inside the Sheep.

She returned quickly, far more quickly than one might have guessed she would, with a satchel and a leather bag she had dragged out from their supply cabinet. She handed them over while explaining that she had packed Ricardo's things for him, along with some food. The tears were spilling openly down her face now, but it was obvious she was trying to appear brave. "Will you take care of him?" she asked, her breath hitching.

His blinding eyes held nothing but pity. "I shall. Best you head back inside, dear girl. Gather what precious memories you have and try and begin a new chapter for yourself. Let not your grief linger you from starting anew."

Regan sniffled, but nodded. Alone and overcome, hoping against hope that Ricardo would suddenly awaken and return to her side so they could leave the tragedy behind together. Alas, she knew in her hearts of hearts it was nothing more than a fool's wish. Before she could head to the safety of her room and wait out the emotional tide, the same voice stopped her again.

"I am truly sorry. But a flower like you would only turn to ashes in the embrace of a dragon."

More than a little puzzled, she chanced one last glance over her shoulder as if that might provide answers, but the robed stranger had already walked quite a distance, moving surprisingly fast for such an old-looking man with a burden as heavy as Ricardo. He was almost to the turn in the path, so calling after him would have just been pointless. Nor did she have any desire, and more importantly the energy, to run after him and demand more answers. Dejected, Regan turned and finally retreated back inside the emptiness of the Sheep.

***

A pair of reddened eyes continued to observe, eyeing the carnage left behind. The blackened, mutilated bodies of the victims in Ricardo's rage. Soldiers with their armour fused to their flesh, many of them with faces unrecognisable, melted away by the extreme heat, some of their swords twisted and warped out of shape, some broken entirely. It was a portrait of madness sure to haunt any who looked upon it. And yet, , even if it was too much to hope for, there was a prize laying within from for those who could stomach it.

Tamar crept out, pausing to look around for any more potential witnesses, but the entire square was as silent as a cemetery. He tiptoed forward until he found what remained of his commander, right next to the much smaller, headless body of the dwarf. With the tip of his boot he rolled the superior officer over; a glint of metal catching his eye

Not too much to hope for at all. While one of the commander's cylinders had melted into a useless mass, the second was perfectly intact. Chances were that he had landed on his arm after the initial wound, his body acting as a shield for the weapon from the brunt of the heat. Aside from a few scratches and a dent, the firearm looked more or less intact.

Grinning, Tamar reached for it. It wasn't everyday such a marvellous device fell into the hands of a lowly grunt after all.

***

Maxos spooned a bit of butter and honey onto his zucchini bread, enjoying it with great relish between bites of the eggplant rolls. Truly, the Green Mother could provide fare worthy of a king if one knew how to properly prepare it.

The elf barmaid, on the other hand, was very much on edge, as the raised voices outside and the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle continued to echo louder. A few of the other patrons seemed equally alarmed as well, those close to the windows glancing outside to see the cause of the commotion.

The only one who was not disturbed in the slightest was Maxos, who finished his breakfast and the last of his tea with grace, wiping his lips on a napkin and then folding it back into place on the table. "Excuse me, madam," he said to the barmaid, who turned to look at him. "May I ask you name?"

The maid, a little surprised, responded: "Portia."

"A beautiful name. If you would please, Portia, move a few steps to the side. About three or four will suffice.

Still puzzled, but unfailingly polite, Portia obeyed. "Why?" she asked as she walked.

It was not Maxos who answered her, but rather the wall, which practically exploded in a shower of splinters as two figures hurled through, locked in each other's grasp like partners in an awkward, vicious dance. Ricardo seemed to be the culprit of this move, one he had executed by grabbing the soldier and then rushing them both through, tumbling through the exact space Portia had been standing only a second ago. Even as they both fell to the floor, it was clear the dark-skinned make was unconscious, as if the effort required for such a move drained the last bit of strength from him.

Or it could have been the six swords sticking out of his back. That was a good guess, too.

Chaos exploded in the inn, a roar of noise surrounding them as the patrons leapt to their feet, chairs scraping and banging against the floor in their haste to get up, some of them bellowing out in anger, others in panic and one even took the time to flee. All of it was punctuated by Portia screaming her head off in horror.

The first to truly recover, however, was Tamar. More than a little dazed, he scrambled out of Ricardo's not so tender embrace and readied the only weapon he had – the cylinder. "Nobody move!" he yelled, his voice edged with the panic left from the assault he had just suffered. "I am under the authority of Emperor Avaritia; the owner of this inn and all of its occupants by royal decree! Anyone who hinders my operations are an insult to his very name, and as such shall be met with death!"

A speech far more eloquent than his tone implied, most likely rehearsed, but one that still caused all who heard it to freeze in place, even those in mid-step. Fear of a single misplaced twitch had them all poised like statues. Even Portia had stopped her shrieking. With so many silent souls, the inn was more akin to a graveyard. That is, until the scraping of a chair broke the raging quiet like first crack of a wintery lake.

Maxos rose, his face stern yet impassive, the weight of his unblinking gaze pressing down upon all who met it. The heaviness of a thunderstorm before the rain. "There is no Emperor Avaritia," he spoke, all eyes now upon him. "And you are nothing more than a wild dog without a leash, under the banner of a child who sees commodity over the common good. The people of Badgerly do not bend the knee to such men."

The way in which the occupants' eyes widened after hearing such casual defiance would have been almost comedic, if not for the tightening of the noose around their necks. The air became thick with dread.

Tamar could feel it swelling in his belly; a sense of giddiness, now that he had someone to which he could oh so easily unload his fury. All the better if it were a scarecrow of a man. He pointed the cylinder up to Maxos's nose, though with subtly amused the old man looked, it might as well have been a carrot being shoved at him. Such a reaction only flared the ragged officer's rage.

"Who do you think you are, old man?" he spoke, pressing the weapon into Maxos' worn brow. "To oppose a soldier of the true emperor is nothing short of treason...I should scatter the content of your head around this fucking tavern before you blink!" he howled. "And that goes for all of you! Stand in our way, speak out of turn, and I'll burn your leaf-eating bastards to cinders!"

The only thing that could be heard was Tamar's ragged breathing, along with the occasional teardrops of those that couldn't handle the threat presented to them. Petrified that they wouldn't live to see dusk.

"Treason, how pitiful," Maxos sighed, his face like that a disappointed lecturer, grossly underwhelmed by the bravado presented by the soldier before him. "Threats born from a swollen ego. Pride built up from slaughter and subjugation. It is you who have committed treason, sir. You tread upon fair Rivellon, casting aside duty for gain and morality for a fat coin purse. You and your merry band have fallen too far, you must be punished for your deeds."

The laugh that sprang from Tamar's bruised lips was almost hollow. So taken aback by the old man's outburst he could hardly contain himself. "Is that right?" he asked, pressing the cylinder even deeper, to the point that it was discolouring the flesh of Maxos' forehead. "And who is going to punish me? You?"

"Don't be daft, I am but an old man. The time for me to carry out imperial judgement has long passed," he snapped back, his confidence undiminished. "Besides, sins such as yours must be dealt with by those of the highest station...and as it happened, he just woke up."

Tamar appeared momentarily confused, but the sound of a harsh breath stopped him. The whole seemed to turn in unison, watching with dumbfounded faces as what many had assumed was a dead body rise up to full height again. The shallow breath spilling from his mouth was only matched by a strange hissing as he reached behind him to pull out one of the blades lodged in his back. With a great deal of effort, the blade was wrenched free, only to be instantly replaced with a collective torrent of blood and steam.

The soldier's face became devoid of colour.

With laboured panting, Ricardo began to remove more of the swords. Each one slid out with a sickening wet noise, soaked in both blood and what appeared to be burn marks. It only took him a further minute to remove all from his back, leaving only six bloodied swords lumped together on the floorboards below.

One for each of the other soldiers he had left outside the inn, now laying lifeless among the cobbles. Food for the crows.

The sudden sense of mortal terror appeared to finally give to Tamar's static limbs, forcing himself to hold his wrist-mounted apparatus, sending off a shot as soon as he was able. Of course, such a frantic display only ended up grazing the shoulder of his target, whose eyes now firmly set upon his. Alive. Unblinking. Engulfed in an unnatural orange sheen.

"What the hell...?!" Tamar demanded breathlessly, desperately trying to reload another shot, only to be encumbered by his own tremulous fingers. "What the fuck are you?!" he snapped, propelled by his panic, he managed to unleash another three consecutive shots.

Two missed their mark by a hair, further damaging the inn's poor backwall in the process, while the third and third projectile got its fair feel of blood when it wrenched itself through Ricardo's shoulder, the impact splattering blood across the floor and even onto the rim of Porta's skirt, earning a fresh scream.

Joy filled Tamar's veins as he watched the figure before him start to arch back, close to collapsing. The euphoria ended up fading rather quickly however, on account Ricardo's suddenly dashed forward, the wound in his shoulder already sweltering away like it was roasting in an open fire. The dead flesh burning away, replaced by untouched flesh almost instantaneously. A cycle of life and death held together by an unnatural fire.

The reason Tamar was able to see this so clearly? On account that the formally damaged arm had now grasped his face with such ferocity that he could feel one of his teeth come loose. Finger pressing into his helmet like iron, holding him prisoner while his other arm was pinned back, pressing the weapon attached upwards. It had happened so suddenly that it wasn't until he could feel his bones starting to strain that he remembered to cry out. 

"Get off of me...!" he demanded, muffled as it was. Though the only response he received was even more pressure applied to his face. In turn, he provided a shrill response as he was totally incapacitated before everyone's eyes.

Ricardo was still. Very still. As the flames in his eyes began to dim, what had been a blur, a battle-sleep, slowly diminished. He had been so focused on the foe before him that it was like had forgotten to breathe. But now he was awake, and as a result he became very aware of what felt like a million eyes bare down upon his display, though none dared speak. The only one who seemed to be doing all of the talking was Tamar, though it was hard to differentiate between the slander, the shouting and the snivelling.

"Well done," Maxos voice cut through as he placed a hand on Ricardo's shoulder. "There can be no doubt. You are the one," he stated, nothing except complete neutrality in his response. "This is why I sought you out. So you could aid Rivellon and her people, against men like him, like the one he serves."

"B...Bastard!" Tamar growled, using his spare arm to try and lash out, but each blow that connected bouncing off Ricardo's arm. "If you don't release me I'll -"

"I killed them," Ricardo said, softly. "I killed the rest of them. Without even thinking. I just...broke them."

"I know," Maxos replied, now going around and helping some of the more apprehensive elves to their feet. It had all happened so quickly that some had no idea how to act.

"I didn't want this. Any of it. I'm not part of their war. I'm not a part of anything...I just wanted peace," he continued, his body nearly hunching over, his voice flooded with barely-restrained contempt.

Portia was shaking like a leaf as the aged wizard helped her to her feet, though even that wasn't enough to keep her steady. Her legs were water, the rest of her a stone. Maxos aided her into a chair before leaning on his staff, the light of his eyes hardening, resolve burning within them.

"Fourteen years ago Emperor Sigurd of Rivellon was murdered. Found atop his throne with six daggers buried in his body. So consumed with confusion and grief that it wasn't until the first war cry that we all discovered that his assassins were none other than his own children," he stated. The passion in his words was like that of a preacher.

_The white room. So blinding and white that any feature is impossible to make out. The radiance pressing down upon him yet so vast he cannot tell where it ends. Both stifling and liberating, stretching as wide as the sky while the walls feel as close as the caverns of a cave._

_The door. The door as indomitable as a mountain and the scene on the other side._

_Six figures. Six daggers. Plunged into the writhing body of the one sitting on the throne._

_The shroud stained red. So red and bright and vivid to stain the ever-pure white. So red that the colour screamed at him_

_The eyes turned to him._

"Six siblings, six candidates for the crown, six betrayers that carve up our homeland to this very day. While we sit in silence and pray for peace, every province, every race is suffering under the weight of this conflict. From the smallest fishing towns at the coast of the Northern Sea all the way to the Everspire, it won't be long before Rivellon is lost forever, consumed by her scars. I knew I had to find a solution." 

It was hard to tell of Ricardo's silence was because he was hanging on every word, or if he was trying to tune it all out. Either way, his grip started to loosen. 

"The only way for peace to flourish is for heir to assume the throne. One recognised by all, one capable serving Rivellon and her peoples, one who can shoulder Sigurd's sins" he sighed, pain in his words. "My friend, overcome with madness and grief. Who I couldn't stop from unhinging his own empire." 

_The man on the throne was lurching to keep his balance, even though he was sitting. Like a sailor who no longer knew how to walk on solid land, his feet too accustomed to the gentle rolling of a ship upon the waves. The smell of alcohol was thick in the air, and he was nearly on the verge of tears as he stared at the canvas in his hands._

_"No matter how many artists I employ," he was saying, "none of them can properly capture her beauty."_

_He turned the canvas around to show the half-finished painting to Ricardo. It was the portrait of a young, beautiful woman, formed by the strokes of a brush, yet there was somehow something missing that had nothing to do with how completed the painting was._

_"And yet every time I look at you," the man continued in an awed whisper, "I see her fire."_

"The future of this land cannot be handed to any of the six. Even now, their desire to assume the throne is deadlier than the machines of war they employ. Thousands of taverns like these will burn before the day's end, their inhabitants slaughtered, a drop in the ocean of blood that sweeps this land. And yet we do nothing," his words bit into those around him like winter. "The nobles and military of humanity continue to flock the six, loyalty in exchange for survival. The Lizard hide behind their letters of law. The Undead rest in ebony towers while pleading to their gods. The Imps continue to tinker with their toys. The Dwarves dig deeper than ever into their mountains, even the Elves merely hold out hope that the Green Mother's blessings will keep them safe. All suffer, yet none act. Which brings me to you..." 

Tamar was dropped onto the floor as Ricardo let his arms fall to the side. His expression impossible to read. 

"I had all but conceded defeat as I saw the countless dead fill the earth, year after year...but it was in them, the very face of death, did I finally find my answer. I had thought so little of it back then, the so-called the Great Scandal. The seed that sprung Sigurd's spiral into lunacy. The day he brought a child into the royal court. Skin of soil, eyes like flame. For the longest time my Emperor said nothing of the child's origins, who he was, why he had taken him in. And then the paintings began. Endless canvases, all the same subject; a woman of beauty beyond description. Even through oil and brush, it was easy to see she was unlike any other." 

_He was rambling again, the delirium drowning him, yet his voice remained clear. He paced continuously, his cloak whirling with each agitated turn as he talked, nearly swiping Ricardo's cheek in the process._

 _"She was so beautiful! More beautiful than any woman I ever seen. Her beauty was like that of the mountains, of the storms, of the ocean. A thing of nature, ever beautiful, what hope could a mere woman have against her might? She had the beauty of fire in her. Even when she was death on wings and when nothing could stand against the might of her power, she was beautiful!"_

"Such a fool I was. I refused to believe that Sigurd could betray the love of his Queen, that he would lie to his closest friends, that he would succumb to...baser instincts. But the paintings told the whole story. This woman, her eyes, their inky light was reflected in that child. Their child. The bastard son that I assumed had perished alongside his father on that most mournful of days," the grip on his staff was so tight that his knuckles had turned a dusty white. "And just like that, all was made clear." 

Ricardo's shoulders heaven slightly before he looked at Maxos, the orange of his eyes shimmering as his tears reflected against the irises 

"If that child lived. If he had somehow escaped his doom, then he, with royal blood surging through his veins, would be Rivellon's last hope. So, I ask you again. Before innocent and guilty alike." A pause as both men's eyes met, destiny's bittersweet song echoing in the space between them. "Child of Sigurd, the bastard son foretold...will you fight for us?" 


	5. Aurora

The carriage rattled and bumped along, almost merrily in its movements, swaying from the jaunting of the horses that pulled it along. One could almost imagine that the coach would start whistling a tune any second, although so far the only noise one could hear would be the clop of the horses' hooves, the creak of the wheels, and the crackle of the carriage passing over the dirt road as it continued on its journey to parts unknown.

Ricardo stared out of carriage's window, his face pressed between the glass and the sheet curtains as he watched the landscape rolling by. He'd been like this for hours, interested in little else aside from watching the scenery change, trying to imagine where they were as their surroundings changed little by little. This time it was long, bounding hills, crowned with small groves of trees, with more ancient oaks lining the side of the road here and there. Occasionally they went over what appeared to be ravines and the lands plunged down dozens of feet below them into deep, miniature valleys overgrown with vines and lush forests, before they reached the other side of the bridge and were along their way.

Elven lands, filled with greenery and its wealth in nature, not in material things. Ricardo was going to miss them, in a way. Miss their peace and serenity, miss the life he was leaving behind for something he wasn't even entirely certain he wanted to be a part of. He could have been a server at The Skulking Sheep for the rest of his life and been perfectly content...providing there wasn't a lunatic sitting on the throne.

But, he supposed, there was very little he could do about that now. As Dogberry used to say during one of his infamous poker nights "the die hath been cast!"

They had left the tavern several hours ago, laden with new clothes and food for the journey that the elves had so graciously shoved upon them. Of course, Ricardo knew that their motives were born out of panic rather than gratitude. Still, the sheer number of provisions they had practically forced into their arms was somewhat monumental. Even in their desperation to rid themselves of the troublesome strangers, the locals had been awfully generous, as was the traditional Elven way. Even if the patchwork trousers were a tad too light on his thighs and the cotton tunic was stretched across his broad chest.

Across from him was Maxos, who was in a rather cheerful mood considering what had occurred merely hours ago. He was plucking at dried apple, pear, and apricot slices from a leaf wrap and eating them with clear enthusiasm. "It was so nice of Portia to hand us so much silver before we left, what an incredibly sweet girl," he said, his voice breaking the silence that had lain unbroken since they had gotten in their carriage just at the edge of town. "Truly marvelous breed, you don't see many ladies like that anymore. We really need to thank her one day, perhaps when the owner is no around, since we have been banned for life."

_"Arson! Destruction of private property! Murder! Assault! Hostages! Annnnd—" the fat elven owner counted off all of their crimes on his fingers, red as a beet in the face, before sucking in a huge breath like a great bellows before announcing their greatest crime: "Disturbing the peace!" Then with a grand, somewhat dramatic gesture despite everything, he seized the both of them by their necks and began dragging. "So now out! Out I say!"_

_"My good sir, please," Maxos tried to say to placate him, raising his hands. "All I ask for are a few supplies and I promise my companion and I will be on our way."_

_The mention of Ricardo drew multiple eyes towards the young man, who, aside from a few ashen stains, now stoof completely naked._

_"Public indecency!" the elderly elf cried out._

There was no response from Ricardo. It was clear he had heard the words, but was so deep in thought that he didn't even so much as blink in response. Wherever he had wandered off to in his thoughts, it was clearly somewhere he couldn't be dug out of so easily with a simple commentary.

The old wizard watched him for a moment, his lit eyes unwavering in their stare, before he decided to settle for something a little more...substantial in context. "How far outside of Foxdale have you travelled?" he questioned, leaning back and resting his hands on his staff. It was a posture of casualness and calm, but his gaze was far too alert for it to be true.

Ricardo's eyes narrowed.

_Feet burning as the bare skin slapped against the stones below, so sore and bruised.. But he could not let that stop him. He had to run, run, with the fruit clutched in his hands before the merchant caught up with him. His heart was light. At least he would eat tonight._

_Another night, tossing and turning in the hay pile he nested himself up inside while on the second story of a barn. Below he could hear the rats scuttling about and the thump of the cat's paws as it chased them, and further off in the distance the sound of an approaching thunderstorm rumbling in the night sky. If the owners caught him they would throw him out, into the incoming rain. Either way, his face was drenched with bitter waters._

_Up he grew, and strong, and lean. Strong enough to catch and find his own food. Strong enough to offer his services and help on the farm rather than being another useless mouth for a family to feed. Learning how to use a plow and excelling at it, learning how to use the scythe and liking the feel of it in his hands, building houses with the rest of the workers, being payed in both coin and food. Surviving. No matter what._

"I don't remember Crown's Fort," Ricardo said softly, his fingers tapping on his knee. He tried to banish the memories but they still swam there, under the surface and refusing to be quelled. "At least not well. Most of what I can recall are snippets that aren't connected to anything else. I remember...my father," he gathered himself. "I remember his death."

_The figure, so white, blood spreading across his shawl. Six daggers plunged into his chest, twitching against them in his death throes. Six figures, harbingers, their eyes turning to him with hollow gazes._

"and after that, travelling down the Hemlock Road."

_So long. So long it felt like the road would lead to the very end of the world. Not a single stretch of it was paved, only hard-packed dirt and trees framing it for miles and miles. Almost enough to make his feet blister and bleed, but he was wearing his good shoes and the dirt was far more forgiving than cobblestones. The road had plunged him into the depths of the woods, surrounded by the beasts and birds, ambled through fields with their harvest swaying under the light of the sun, crossed rivers and streams and brooks, all knowing that the elven lands lay somewhere ahead._

Maxos raised his eyebrows. "The journey from the human lands to elven provinces is immense. That must have been challenging for you, especially after escaping such horror."

Ricardo frowned, his brows dipping while Maxos's soared.. "It was. But looking back on it, I don't think I would change it. It taught me a valuable lesson."

"Which was?"

"If you want to live, you keep walking."

"And would you change what happened in the tavern with that soldier?" Maxos asked, his words as piercing as ever. Throwing back the veil on the issue and letting it bathe in the clear light of his uncomfortable scrutiny, bring everything to the forefront.

***

Tamar forced himself to his feet, panting harshly through his teeth, and put his cylinder to Ricardo's chest. "Bullshit," he growled, as if saying it enough times would make it undeniable. "This is all bullshit!" Spittle was flying from his mouth, nearly raving under the pressure. "The idea some dark-skinned whore-son like you being royalty is treasonous fantasy!"

The cylinder clicked, loud enough to echo through the establishment, but it spat no fire. He tried again. And again, and again. He was five clicks in before his bloodshot eyes looked downward to see the source of the barrel's malfunction: it had been melted into his arm, now nothing more than a golden stain on the armor piece. The indent from where Ricardo had grabbed it was still very much visible.   
  
Tamar nearly fell over himself in that moment, grasping desperately at his belt, before it came up with a knife no more than a few inches clutched in it. It was a poor substitute, but it would be enough, especially when he got managed to grab a hold of a elf girl who could not have been older than ten. She barely had any time to scream before she was caught in his shaky embrace.

"I'll kill her!" he yelled, his eyes rolling in his head as he looked at the crowd around him. The tip of his blade pressed against her smooth, pale throat unceasingly.

The girl's mother shrieked and unthinkingly lunged for her as if to grab her back, only for Tamar's gauntlet to backhand her across the face, knocking her into the floorboard below.

"She's coming with me! If any of you leaf-eating bastards take a single step I'll cut her throat and bleed her out like a pig!"

No one moved. No one hardly dared breathe, except Ricardo who's shimmering orange eyes regarded the scene with a calm that was far more frightening than Tamar's hysterics. Instead he turned to look at Maxos, his gaze unblinking and questioning. "Did you know anything about the woman Sigurd was obsessed over?" he asked, as if he and the wizard were the only two people left in the tavern.

Never breaking his gaze with Ricardo's, Maxos gave a slow nod. "I do," he said, almost smiling. "And she was indeed beautiful beyond description. Humans and their words do not do her enough justice."

"Enough!" Tamar yelled. "you two whore-sons keep talking I will gut her! Understand me?!" he howled, the blade sawing at the nape of the girl's neck to the point where the skin had already started to break. "Sigurd the Mad...Sigurd the Shit-Spitter. A foolish old man who did nothing with his crown, handed away our lands to long-ears, fat cave-dwellers and swampers! But we're going to change all that. Avaritia is going to change everything!" he snarled, eyes and maw blustering like he were in the throngs of a climax, overcome with rabid rage, leaving further cuts into the girl's neckline. "When we're done, we'll be swimming in oceans of gold, and there won't be a single one of you inhuman fucks left ALIVE!"

Silence fell anew. The little girl's tears began to wet the edge of the knife pressing into her throat.

"...She was no whore," Maxos suddenly spoke out, voice sharp. "The woman who Sigurd gave his kingdom for. The who inspired such desire it destroyed him. She was of a bloodline more ancient and potent than any of the Civilized Races, older than we can ever hope to imagine. Our ancestors were still in the trees when hers roamed the skies freely."

Before Tamar could squawk out a response, Ricardo stepped before him. His body unmoving save for the small spirals of smoke that had begun to churn behind his lips.

"A being capable of appearing as a beautiful, flawless woman, but in truth, was a creature of great and terrible power. In their time, they were known as the  _ddraig'goch,_ but nowadays that word has been twisted, a shadow of its former splendor. While we no longer regard their name with awe, their legacy continues to endure, even if it is merely on the tongues of children" he stated, the end of his staff shimmering in an unfamiliar light, slowly moving it into position. "Dragons."

Ricardo's eyes flared, bright as twin lanterns while from the depths of his mouth liquid flame began to pour. The sensation was familiar to him, a sickening on that wove its way deep into his marrow. This burning taste, this overwhelming heat that spiraled forth from every orifice. How many nights had he spent despising this feeling? How many waking moments aimlessly wishing to cut away the fire that lurked beneath his flesh? Yet here. in this singular moment. As it flourished inside of him, swelling upwards from his belly to his throat...he welcomed it.

"Stay back!" Tamar's voice seemed to break under the weight of his own terror, his grip on the knife and the petit elf seemed to be fluctuating, the blade rising to her cheek, causing her to let out a small scream. Small, even pitiful, but it was enough to break the soldier's waning concentration.

And that was all that was needed.

Ricardo lunged forward, like a bear coated in fireflies. Breaking free of its bonds, flames pouring from his mouth, the imprint of his foot both breaking and scorching the ground before as he managed to close the distance between himself and his prey within but a single second.

Within that sparseness, Maxos jerked his staff to the side, an unknown language on his tongue. _"Ātmada Svic"_ The words, slippery and strange, bit into the air, with their effect immediately noticeable.

Gone was the elf girl from Tamar's grasp, replaced by a chair. The look of confusing on Tamar's face was all-encompassing, to the point where he barely registered Ricardo's

Hand pressing into his face with the force not unlike that of the cylinder, nails digging into the skin to the point of bursting, all before he sent the soldier crashing into the floorboards below. It was hard to tell if the snap that followed was from the wood or from bone.

As Ricardo opened his mouth wide, it proved not to matter.

A river of fire poured from the depths of his maw, bathing them both in flame, throwing the tavern into a stark light that had the elves crying out and shielding their eyes. Instead of the wild inferno that had nearly consumed the Sheep, the fire became that of a pillar, reaching out for the very heavens as it blasted upward in a column that ate through all above it, rampaging through the roof itself. On and on it burned, nearby glasses cracking from the overwhelming heat, and above it all Tamar's screaming raged on until they too were consumed.

The flames soon wavered, breaking apart into little wisps before dissipating completely. At the center of it all was Ricardo, clothes having been scorched off, replaced by Tamar's swirling ashes. Sunlight poured in from the tavern's new rooftop entrance, illuminating the smoke that currently embraced his frame.

The only one to dare move in such an aftermath was the elf girl, running back into the arms of her mother, though such a reunion did little to impede the stupefication that seemed to have gripped all the occupants.

A small sigh emerged from Ricardo as he rose, the minute and charred remains of what what had once been a foolish soldier cascading off of his body to join the rest of the dust. His eyes, softened into embers, turned to Maxos.

"Where to next?"

***

Ricardo sighed and ran his hand through his hair, a moment of reflection in what had proven to be a very eventful morning. "The die hath been cast," he responded. "No matter the outcome, I will not run from the result. You have my word on that."

Maxos chuckled a little at his words. "At least you will not fulfill your destiny without your small trousers. Another thing to thank dear Portia for."

The sight of the beautifully plump elf handing over replacement garments while desperately trying not to peek at the younger man's appendages was something that would live on infamy in Ricardo's memory, unfailing in its ability to cause him to blush hard. Seemed the poor thing had suffered her own awakening in that tavern.

Before long, the shadow of seriousness reclaimed him. "I have some questions," he said, finally sitting up straight and letting the curtain fall back.

"I suspect you do," Maxos agreed, folding his hands in his lap. "I shall endeavor to answer what I can."

Despite the spring of knowledge before him, it was some moments before Ricardo could actually settle on a query. "How did you know I was alive after...Sigurd's death?"

"I did not. If anything I was grasping at straws handed to me by fate's generous hand. In all honestly, I doubted you of all people could have ever survived the aftermath of the Rubrum Regicide," he began.   
  
"Is that what the people call it?"

"The Rivellon Times may have coined the phrase, it has since tumbled into public consciousness."

"Of course they did."

"In answer to your question, I was not made aware of your...draconic origins until Rivellon had already been submerged in war. But it changed everything. To have the blood of such a species flowing through your veins, it allowed me to hold onto to hope that even a child could have escaped such a dreadful fate. My hypothesis proved correct," he stated, a small degree of smugness evident in his voice. "Though it still begs the question of how you managed to escape. After all, the Six were more than willing to slay their own father, what would have stopped them from killing you as well? I am very much aware of how there was little love lost between all of you."

_She was drenched in blood, flecks of it even upon her dazzling golden hair that framed her face. She looked like a goddess of war, armor gleaming, sword a lance of light, her face terrifyingly blank under its mask of red._

_Her lips parted, and her words escaped in a hiss of air. "Disappear, brother mine."_

Ricard blinked, and he was back in the swaying carriage and nothing made any more sense than it did a half-second ago. "I'm still trying to figure that out myself," he said.

Maxos's brow frowned, and for a moment he stared at him in scrutiny, trying to read the thoughts that shimmered underneath the surface there. "Alright," he said, his small smile back in place. It was interesting how the tattoos along his face changed with each one of his expressions. Still the same one as ever but it somehow seemed to add to each emotion he had, making it seem more intense on his face than what would normally be there.

"I have more questions." Ricardo said, bracing himself for something. This time he broke eye contact with Maxos and leaned back with his gaze focus between his legs. "Or rather, a request. I want to know everything about my mother. Everything you can tell me."

The old wizard sighed. "I was afraid when we would get to this inevitable topic. Sadly, there is very little known about her. She is, and always was, an enigma. I cannot say I know much more about her than when I did when we first met. Not to mention since the start of the war whatever sway and influence I held from my position in the Court has been almost completely lost."

"Still, you know  _something,"_ Ricardo said, unrelenting. "I want to know it all. Every last thing you can think of. Tell me."

Maxos chuckled at this. "Ah, you demand perfectly. Imperially, just as you should considering our heritage. Learn how to master that, Ricardo, you will need it." His face became thoughtful after that. "However, I did still have a few contacts from my time as Court Wizard, and others who owed me favors or information. I learned that Sigurd and your mother met during the Annus Novus Celebration, for ushering in the new year. No one had recalled inviting her and no one knew who she was. However, it mattered little, she still managed to cause quite a stir among all of the men present. I hear there was more than one argument with a jealous wife over it."

Ricardo's fingers tapped against his arm as he listened. A broken rhythm that only he could keep up with. "She was really that beautiful?" he asked. He had always assumed in his memories that Sigurd had been consumed by delirium, exaggerating what he remembered through a stream of unbridled emotions. He always thought his mother had been beautiful, but certainly not to the strangely mystical heights Maxos was describing.

"Indeed she was. She had several marriage proposals before the night was even finished, or so I have been told." Maxos seemed very amused by this, but he said little else to elaborate on it, seeing Ricardo's expression. "Interestingly, the sightings between her and Sigurd were few, especially compared to some of the other nobles vying for her attention. However, a server contact of mine did mention while he was pouring Sigurd's wine he overheard him asking her name. She replied with 'Aurora.'"

Ricardo's eyes widened. He barely had a moment to repeat her name in his mind before it all came flooding back to him.

_Giant wings, rippling and flapping like the sound of a hundred sails snapping against the sea breeze. Impossibly large and tough, but a source of pride because of it. A soft humming was coming from somewhere, so gentle and filling that all of his body sang with the notes, and he might have sang with her if he knew what she was doing. A hot breath on his body, warm and moist and so so comforting, wrapping around him from all sides._

_A set of beautiful orange eyes looking at him. Exactly like his own._

His throat felt nearly closed. The  _ache,_ the  _longing_ on top of it all. Ricardo almost couldn't think, it was so foreign and yet in the deepest part of himself he knew unequivocally what he saw was memory. Perhaps his first.

"Is she alive?" he asked before he even realized that he was speaking, the words forming on his lips of their own volition. Not that he would have stopped them either way.

Maxos gave him a long stare. "I do not know," he said at last. "However, no one has seen her since the celebration at the palace, so it is hard to say for certain. She simply disappeared, which started the rumor that she never even existed at all and was just a convenient excuse for Sigurd to hide his own madness."

Ricardo merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak aside from a simple: "Thank you." It was so little, and yet at the same time too much to take in. Everything felt paradoxical.

It took a few moments, but that did give him a nice new subject to touch upon. "I do not like the idea of being the...spawn of a dragon" he admitted slowly. Voicing any weakness of his felt terrible and he had to force it out of him, but he also knew if anyone in the world would be capable of helping him with this it was the man right in front of him. "I'm afraid of the things I've already done in the past. What happened at The Skulking Sheep, and all the times even before that, where I wasn't aware of what I was doing."

"Dragon Knight," Maxos spoke out.

Ricardo raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"You are no mere spawn. From what the scholars of old managed to discern, those born from the womb of the dragon yet held parentage of another race were known as Dragon Knights. As I recall, the old texts describe them as 'beings of two faces, one of flesh and one of fire.' What you have been cowering from all these years is as much a part of you as your own arm. As you no doubt saw, when you cast aside any sense of dread, the secrets of your bloodline come to light. Its power is indeed boundless, and that can be terrifying, but in time...it will be yours to command."

At the back of Ricardo's mind, the faintest sound echoed. Like a cry from behind the horizon. Like a beast calling out, clawing at the clouds. And with that cry came the flapping of great wings. The orange in his eyes, for the tiniest moment, flared up once again.

"...The war. Tell me everything."


End file.
